Five Times Tov Wanted to Kiss Massi and One Time He Didn't
by againwiththeday
Summary: Let's bring the house down to rubble and dust.


**I'll be there for you through it all, even if saving you sends me to Heaven**

The Pasqualones are deeply religious people. Sure, it might seem ironic given their line of work, but challenge their beliefs at your own risk. Massi's always followed along in a similar vein. The interrogator is fervently Catholic; Tov thinks it's either a cause for or a symptom of his ever-present guilt at the violence they see on a daily basis. The fairer boy may not hesitate when a situation calls for force, but Tov can see the conflict on his face after. How he'll go quiet and finger the rosary in his pocket.

Tov's no such reservations. He believes in hard facts and things you can touch. God ain't gonna stop a bullet or knock an asshole's teeth out for disrespecting his family. He gets that people need something bigger than themselves to believe in, and there's not much that holds up beneath the everlasting shit storm that that seems to be life. He doesn't blame his parents for needing something to hold on to. He doesn't believe in God, no, but that doesn't mean he isn't religious. He's got a temple and he worships regularly. He's sold his soul for his savior already. He's a fucking priest of his own faith.

It's been years since he took to the cloth. Massi is his habit, and he can't break it. He gives in to the needs of the flesh regularly but it feels like he's been gutted. There's a disconnect between his actions and his core. When he's naked, hips jerking up into that soft feminine mouth, fingers locked in hair that's never the right texture, the interrogator's name that is gospel on his lips. Silent epithets spilled to the cosmos like prayers.

His eyes are always drawn down in these moments. His dick shines with the girl's spit as it drags out from her mouth and he shudders. Muscles contract in his stomach with the movement and he pushes her back down; he can feel the flutter of her throat against the head of his cock and her fingers dig into his hip in protest but he doesn't care. Slate eyes slide shut and he can picture another mouth.

One that he would pull up from the floor and take completely. He's rub his tongue against Massi's, a slick wet slide, and when Massi follows Tov's tongue back into his own mouth, the heir would take it between his lips, sucks on it. Slow and strong and so obscenely suggestive - he can taste himself in that holy fusion - and something goes all hot and tight and urgent in his belly.

With a gasp, his eyes snap open, tendons in stark relief in his neck as it arches back against the wall and he spills himself in a hot rush. The girl chokes on it and he's back here, in the back hallway of a grungy bar, as he offers a mute penance to his messiah for this sin.**  
**

**I'm sorry that you don't think I've said enough**

This is not an unusual night; Tov is drunk enough that his eyes won't seem to go in the same direction. The girl who is coiled around him is not in much better shape; she's a dancer at the club and probably also tweaking on something a lot harder than anything the heir will try. All that matters, though, is that she's practically shrinkwrapped into her dress and she's been in his lap for the past half hour.

"Another," She slurs and leans forward, nearly unbalancing from the young heir's lap. She's reaching for one of the shot glasses on the table, he can determine if he focuses hard, but seems to be having trouble quite getting her hand where she's aiming. He has a moment to appreciate the soft curve of her ass in that tight skirt before she's found a way to catch the shot up, raising it with a victorious noise.

"Drink up!" She chirps with a giggle, moving the glass towards his face. His mouth opens obediently, even if the pounding club music already sounds like it's coming from underwater. Before the alcohol can reach him, though, skilled hands intercept the glass. The girl looks baffled until her soggy gaze swings upwards. In the back of his muddled mind, Tov already knows who it is.

"Have you had enough?" It's not an question, exactly. Massi would never be so presumptuous as to order Tov, but there's a certainty to his tone that the heir's confused brain can't deny. The interrogator guides the girl off his lap with a distasteful expression, gingerly letting her collapse into the booth. Tov sways in his seat, flashing an uneven smile at her as his bodyguard hauls him out of the chair.

Tov stumbles when they hit the street and it's by the sheer grace of stupidly quick reflexes and strong hands curling in his shirt that he doesn't eat cement.

"Dio mio," A vaguely annoyed voice says to his right, where he supposes Massi might be. Tov squints through the blurry darkness towards the other boy as his arm is lifted and pulled over a pair of muscled shoulders.

"Ffff'yer. A cockblock." The heir says with determination, words sloppy despite the express deliberation he choose them with. He squints hazily at the pale blur that is his oldest friend, exhaling a loud sigh. "She's said it's good to go. We were gonna fuck."

"Il respiro odori." It's the only answer he gets and he subsides into a sullen silence, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Massi's support helps, but he still almost goes down several times. One such trip ends up with him hitting the cement hard on his knees. Massi's hands curl in his shirt and he heaves the intoxicated mafioso up, using a wall of a brick building as a support. Tov watches the fair head duck as he's propped against the cold surface; apparently his shoe has managed to come off. There's a lot of muted Italian cursing, and Tov may be drunk but he's also pretty sure he was just called a spoiled child in two languages, but the interrogator seems to be intent on getting the shoe back on the heir's foot.

Drawing in a breath of the close city air, Tov rests his head back against the bricks, clutching Massi's shoulders. It's impossible to see the stars here at the heart of the metropolis. The air pollution is too strong. It makes a meloncholy chill spread along his veins. He supposes, philosophical in the way only a truly inebriated mind can be, that it's a metaphor for his fucking soul. He wonders idly if there are even any stars left there before a shift draws his eyes down. Massi's finished bullying his foot back into his shoe, and is staring up at him curiously.

His eyes glint in the street lamps, cool green pools that glitter in the man-made light like goddamn constellations and Tov blinks through a moment of clarity. _Oh,_ he thinks. _There they are._

Tov's hand shakes as he lays his palm against the smooth, sharp plane of Massi's cheek. He isn't even sure at this point if it's from the alcohol or not. The interrogator's green eyes disappear behind his eyelids for a moment before a frown overtakes his features and he stands, hand lifting to encircle the heir's wrist and pull it carefully away from his face.

"Stolto," He says but Tov doesn't think he's imagining the affection in his voice.

"You're shaking."

An awareness races through him and Tov leans in. It will be perfect. It doesn't matter that his breath is stale, or he tastes like alcohol. The urban sounds will fade away and all that will matter will be the slick slide of their mouths and he can finally - _finally -_ know what Massi feels like. How that ridiculous plush mouth will open under his own, so obediently, how easy it will be to coax those muffled sounds from his throat as Tov teases a pouted lower lip with sharp teeth.

There's just time to hear a sharply confused inhale before the heir freezes, direction changing instantly. Hand still caught in Massi's grip, Tov doubles over. Above him, pained eyes close as vomit splashes onto the pavement at their feet.

"Il tempo di andare a casa, fratello."

**Caught up in the touch, the slow and steady rush**

Massi's body is covered with a sheen of sweat, fingers curled white-knuckled in the sheets. His back is bowed off the bed, throwing his ribs in sharp relief. It's moments like these Tov's gaze doesn't know where to settle. The interrogator is like a fucking wet dream; the pale skin on his thighs are in sharp contrast to the darkly inked designs on the heir's fingers. He knows he's gripping hard enough to leave bruises, but he can't stop.

Tov's riding him with a slow rolling rhythm, his balls rubbing the swell of Massi's ass and his breath coming in short, staccato pants. He's trying to keep it slow but it's no use. Being inside him, so fucking close and rhythm torturously slow, he can almost imagine he can feel the younger's heartbeat. His hand abandons a strong leg and plants next to Massi's head on the soft bed, thrusts getting uneven and increasing in pace.

"Toccarlo," He grits out, voice wrecked and his head dropping forward. Lust hazed eyes open beneath him and for a second Tov can't draw breath. His gaze snaps down to where a wet, pink tongue slides over slightly parted lips as Massi obeys, skilled fingers curling around his own hard cock.

He knows all too well how the wet suck of that worshipping mouth feels stretched around his dick. He knows how it smiles, how it snaps out emotions in rare anger, how it challenges him. There's a half-formed surge of _wantneedlove _and he exhales shakily, pausing midthrust, seated deep in Massi's body.

The protesting cry that tears itself harshly from Massi's throat snaps him out of it and he cups a hand over the boy's mouth. Dropping his forehead to a sweat-slick shoulder, he gives a pained little laugh and picks up the rhythm again.

**I'm not afraid to go if it's with you, I was born to live for you**

Tov's always been a physical person. It's woven into the very nature of his being on all sides of the spectrum. When he's mad, he explodes with violence. When he's happy, he shows it through touch. He's not got a lot of words to express his feelings so often he demonstrates with his body.

Massi is similar in a lot of ways. He's not good with words either; the boy is often times criminally quiet. But touch does not come as easily to him. He allows it from Tov more often than not but it's not a canvas for his emotions. Instead, those who know him well are always privy to his moods by his expressions. The Irish-Italian has been conditioned by a harsh reality to shutter his thoughts well, but they are always there in the still instances. Easy to spot when you know what to watch for, and Tov's been watching for years.

It's one of those quiet and unguarded moments. Massi is sitting up against the headboard of Tov's bed. The orangish red of the city lights peeking through the window cast dramatic shadows on his bare chest; they move and change as his muscles shift under taut skin while he sharpens his favorite blade.

Tov is naked, though he's got the cool silk of his sheet draped over the jut of one hip. He's propped on an elbow, head propped in one palm. His eyes keep slipping shut and he can hear the sound of Massi's voice as he sings, quiet and clear.

It's a while before the low rasp of Massi's laugh jerks him awake.

"Go to sleep, fratello." He says. Tov can make out the flash of strong white teeth in the dark. He has to look up to see them; somehow he's ended up with his face smooshed to the bed, arm crooked awkwardly to the side. A pale wrist drops into his line of sight as Massi leans over his body in order to drop the whetstone on the bedside table. He keeps the knife with him.

As the boy draws back, he unfolds jean clad legs and makes as if to move off the bed. A lifetime of training gives the drowsy heir enough coordinate to snap a hand out, grip bruising on the interrogator's fair wrist. Massi stills and Tov can feel the fine tremor of suppressed movement run through him. If it had been anyone else to grab the younger boy, they probably would've been dead.

Green eyes cut back over the shape of a corded shoulder and Massi lifts a pale brow.

"What?" He asks mildly. Tov can see the way his full mouth forms the words and the thought comes to him, unbidden. It would be so easy- just sit up and get his hand in those fair curls and pull the other boy's head back until he can slant their mouths together -

"Fratello?" Massi murmurs, expression taking on a concerned tint. Tov realizes he's been staring for a moment and the young heir shakes the picture from his head and just tugs on the interrogator's wrist.

"Stay here tonight," He says, demand obvious in his tone. Massi pauses a beat before nodding and swinging his legs back onto the bed. Satisfied with the obedience, Tov's fingers slip free and his eyes gradually close. As the world goes dark, he imagines he can feel the gentle thread of calloused fingers through his hair.

I'll be there for you through it all, even if saving you sends me to Heaven

The Pasqualones are deeply religious people. Sure, it might seem ironic given their line of work, but challenge their beliefs at your own risk. Massi's always followed along in a similar vein. The interrogator is fervently Catholic; Tov thinks it's either a cause for or a symptom of his ever-present guilt at the violence they see on a daily basis. The fairer boy may not hesitate when a situation calls for force, but Tov can see the conflict on his face after. How he'll go quiet and finger the rosary in his pocket.

Tov's no such reservations. He believes in hard facts and things you can touch. God ain't gonna stop a bullet or knock an asshole's teeth out for disrespecting his family. He gets that people need something bigger than themselves to believe in, and there's not much that holds up beneath the everlasting shit storm that that seems to be life. He doesn't blame his parents for needing something to hold on to. He doesn't believe in God, no, but that doesn't mean he isn't religious. He's got a temple and he worships regularly. He's sold his soul for his savior already. He's a fucking priest of his own faith.

It's been years since he took to the cloth. Massi is his habit, and he can't break it. He gives in to the needs of the flesh regularly but it feels like he's been gutted. There's a disconnect between his actions and his core. When he's naked, hips jerking up into that soft feminine mouth, fingers locked in hair that's never the right texture, the interrogator's name that is gospel on his lips. Silent epithets spilled to the cosmos like prayers.

His eyes are always drawn down in these moments. His dick shines with the girl's spit as it drags out from her mouth and he shudders. Muscles contract in his stomach with the movement and he pushes her back down; he can feel the flutter of her throat against the head of his cock and her fingers dig into his hip in protest but he doesn't care. Slate eyes slide shut and he can picture another mouth.

One that he would pull up from the floor and take completely. He's rub his tongue against Massi's, a slick wet slide, and when Massi follows Tov's tongue back into his own mouth, the heir would take it between his lips, sucks on it. Slow and strong and so obscenely suggestive - he can taste himself in that holy fusion - and something goes all hot and tight and urgent in his belly.

With a gasp, his eyes snap open, tendons in stark relief in his neck as it arches back against the wall and he spills himself in a hot rush. The girl chokes on it and he's back here, in the back hallway of a grungy bar, as he offers a mute penance to his messiah for this sin.

**It's like we learned our lesson but conveniently forgot the rules  
****  
**It's probably not the first time this happened, Tov can see that plain as day. Massi does not flinch away from the rapid touch. The stranger wraps fingers around the interrogator's wrist and leans in. The heir can't see the fair haired boy's face from where he's standing but he can read the lines of that body like a children's book. It's easy to discern. He's carrying a tension in his back that could be from anger or arousal. Either way, this is not something Tov will forgive.

Pale eyes glitter as he knocks back the last of his drink. He's not drunk, not tonight. This is a family gathering an his father would never forgive him for doing something stupid in front of people whose support they need to continue operating. The old man can do nothing to keep him from this, though.

The object of his focus moves away finally. Massi observes the man's departure with little discernible reaction before Tov's mother calls him. He goes immediately, steps sure and so graceful. The appreciation that flares in Tov's stomach just serves to make him angry tonight, though, and he shoves up from the bar. Handsy has made his way into the hallway and the heir shadows him, stopping short of the door as the stranger pulls his coat on.

He's out the door like a shot as the man exits, slipping through the entrance before the heavy wood even has time to click back into place. The air is cold enough that he can see his breath crystalize as he exhales and it does nothing to deter him. Shoving hands into his pockets, it takes him just a few rapid steps to catch up to the departing man.

It's a simple matter of knocking against him at the right moment and with a confused grunt, the man stumbles sideways into the mouth of the alley. He's just looking up at Tov, expression not even having time to switch to anger before furious fingers curl in the stranger's dark hair and Tov yanks his head back.

"Did you fuck him?" He asks on a snarl. The man looks baffled, shoulders hunching up in an attempt to relief some of the pressure the heir's grip has on his scalp.

"Who-" The question is cut off by a wet crunch as his face connects with the brick wall and blood spills from his nose and mouth. The man's hands shoot shakily to cup his face and he keens in pain, dropping to his knees. Tov glances at the hair that is torn out in his grasp as the other drops, shaking it from his hand in disgust.

"Let me clarify for you," The heir says, dropping to a crouch next to the huddled man. His tone is nearly gentle, confidential even, his mood much appeased by the sight of dark blood and snot streaking the offending face. Blue eyes, not so different from his own blink back at him through tears and Tov sneers, unable to see this weak man catching Massi's interest. "That pretty blonde boy. You thought you were gonna fuck him, right?"

The stranger, wisely, chooses to say nothing, the congested sounds of his tears the only reply. Tov nods, patting a shaking shoulder. He braces hands on his knees as he pushes to his feet, taking in a deep breath. He rocks back on his heels and regards the other a moment.

"He's not interested, coglione. I see you around and you won't need to worry about getting your rocks off ever again."

**-**

When he gets back to the party, Massi's there by the door, frown stark on his face.

"Where were you?" The interrogator asks, a note of worry in his tone, a perfectly conditioned dog concerned over his master's absence. Tov bites back any harsh words. Something explodes inside him; he wants a myriad of things in that moment. He wants to push the younger boy up against the wall and kiss him, hard and violent and full of teeth. He wants to snap and demand to know who that man was. He wants to punch the interrogator to see if that would spark an authentic fucking reaction, not a pre-recorded message programmed in by his father.

He does none of these things, though. He just closes a vice-like grip on Massi's arm and drags him down the hall.

"Fratello, the party. What-" The fair boy says, voice plainly confused as they pass the door to the parlor and continue down the hall to the stairs. Tov doesn't answer as they ascend the stairs and reach his room. Doesn't say a word as he shoves the interrogator against the door as it clicks into place, dropping to his knees. Mentions none of his doubts as calloused fingers drag up the muscled abdomen in front of him, wrists dragging the other boy's shirt up with the movement.

This is his communication, his communion, his teeth not gentle as they graze the definition of one hip and his mouth moves up along the tattooed ribcage. _You are mine._

**At the end of it all, you're still my best friend**

There's adrenaline coursing through his veins even after they round the corner. Tov feels comfortable enough to click the safety back on on his 9mm. Massi's stopped up ahead of him, fair hair shining in the afternoon sun. The little girl is perched on his hips and the interrogator is murmuring soft words, much to her delight. Her chubby face is lit up - outside of the dank light and mildew smell of that bastard's house, the baby seems healthy enough, though the back of her head is slightly flat in the way a child who's been left to lie on its back has and her diaper hasn't been changed in who knows how long.

Tov's steps pause as he approaches the other. Massi looks up, the slight wince as the baby grabs at his blonde curls with pudgy fingers doing nothing to dim the bright smile curving his lips. His expression is, for once, completely devoid of any hint of reserve.

"Did they follow?" He asks, ignoring the wet coos of the baby in favor of rubbing a smudge of dust from her cheek. She blinks perfect brown eyes and sways, though Massi's gentle palm on her back keeps her cradled to his body. Tov can think of all the times that he'd wished he could change the nature of their relationship, in one way or another, in that minute. The days he'd been furious at the interrogator and half-wished he wasn't such a huge presence in the heir's life. The days he'd wanted nothing more than to lock the younger boy in his room and never let him out, keep him beneath the covers until the defensive shroud of silence falls away and he can hold him through the emotions he knows run deep in the half-breed.

"Nah," Tov answers, knowing that he wouldn't change or trade this in any way. Not when the risks were exponentially. Not when they were the danger of losing that excited expression looking back at him.


End file.
